


Wires (& the Concept of Breathing)

by ror_schach



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Pining, Platonic Soulmates, Slice of Life, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ror_schach/pseuds/ror_schach
Summary: A behind-the-scenes look at Deacon and Glory's friendship, exaggerated.(This is a collab, and the amount of time between each chapter will vary, please be patient with us!)





	Wires (& the Concept of Breathing)

****September 7, 2280.** **

I was about to snatch that pen right out of her god damn hand.

“Is there something on your mind?” the worn leather of my notebook hit the table with a thump. “You’ve been clicking that thing for 20 minutes now. Spit it out.”

Head honcho Desdemona abruptly stopped fidgeting and made __that__  face, the one where I’m supposed to shut my trap so she could think. She looked like a fed-up mother of 12, which wasn’t far from the truth given that there was a whole organization under her command and none of us really knew how to act.

“Come on, you can tell __me,”__ whatever she was trying to work out, it had to be juicy. If she hadn’t told me I would’ve dug around until I cracked it. Desdemona knew this.

She rolled her eyes and stood up straight, “I’m bringing in a new heavy. Don’t fuck this up for me.”

“Thank my lucky stars I don’t have to pick up a minigun and do the dirty work,” the light chuckle didn’t amuse her. Debbie downer. “So who’s the lucky fella?”

“Glory,” she huffed and actually __looked__ at me. Eye contact and everything, indicating she was __serious__ serious. “She’s doing quite well at Ticonderoga. Since we’re still down a heavy, I’m bringing her here.”

Now if I’m being honest here - just between you and I, internal monologue - Glory scared the __piss__ out of me. I’d only bumped shoulders with her twice.

 

 The first time was right here at our humble abode, the Switchboard. She made a very compelling argument about why she should leave with her memories of the Institute intact. Then she contested with Desdemona over gaining admission into the ranks.

Bold move, but the girl was a brick shithouse and I __don’t__ mean that as an insult. How could anyone say no and assume they’d walk away with functioning kneecaps?

Believe it or not, I got booted from that little rendezvous. Fresh face swap, strutted in with fresh stitches and all but caused Doctor Amari, who brought the girl directly to our hidey hole after she refused to comply with a memory wipe, to piss herself. I caught a good half of the squabble before actually stepping into the light. Desdemona screamed at me and demanded I get the __fuck__ out after I got to say a few words to the girl. She never was a fan of shock value. I’ll get back to that.

Glory, or at least what I caught of her from a glance, had one of those penetrating stares. The kind that would make entire armies put up a white flag. I approached cautiously, not trying to alarm whatever beast hid behind those peepers. It was 4 in the morning and I wasn’t trying to get my ass kicked.

“Hi,” I scooted up next to her and gave the sweetest smile I could muster. Hoped to christ she’d catch on that I was friendly and not just some face-swapping weirdo.

“What the __fuck__ happened to you?” she looked disgusted. Great opportunity to lighten the mood with some humor.

“Is there something on my face?” the sour expression only intensified. Guess it __was__ that bad.

“Deacon, get the __fuck__ out!” Des squawked, comical as hell. I indulged her and backed out of the room with my hands up, no harm done. Right?

Round 2 didn’t go as swimmingly.

She actually punched me in the face, only spiking my admiration for her. Did I mention she was ****bold****? Back in my youth, I would’ve tried to bed down any woman willing to rock my jaw, but I’d left that playboy attitude in the past with the gang I ran around with. Getting laid was a rare treat, and it was absolutely required to be anonymous 100% of the time.

“That was…awesome!” she sneered when I commended her like she couldn’t just take the fucking compliment.

“ _ _Awesome?”__ Glory blinked and popped her hip out, arms crossed. She was statuesque and unapologetic. The Railroad could use that.

I cradled my jaw in my palm and grinned, “We’re gonna get along great, man. I can dig a girl with a shitty attitude and impulsive fists.”

“Deacon, leave her alone,” Desdemona grumbled. “If you can’t behave yourself around Glory I’ll lock you in a closet every time she comes this way. Understand?”

“Auf Wiedersehn or whatever, Glory. That’s the name you picked, yeah? It suits you. Deacon out.”

 

Long story short: she thought I was a total fuckass, and I couldn’t help but fear for the safety of my balls in her presence.

“I trust the two of you will get along,” Desdemona smirked behind what was possibly her 50th cancer stick of the day.

I ignored it, instead asking to bum one. She was kind enough to meet my request, taking it as a sort of nonverbal agreement.

“She’ll be here in 2 days. Be on your best behavior, Deacon,” I met her eyes and grinned. “I __mean it__.”

The Switchboard was always cold. Always. In autumn, however, it was bitter. I sank back into my scarf and blinked at her. “I can do that,” I lied.

“I can only hope you’re telling me the truth. When she arrives and gets settled in, I’m sending her with you on a recon.”

“ _ _What?!”__ no fucking way. No fucking __way__. I lurched towards her, the cherry of my cigarette breaking off and burning a hole in my slacks. It hurt like a bitch, but it amused the hell out of Desdemona. Most days I couldn’t tell if she was a sadist, but right now the proof was in the pudding. “Fuck - __ow!”__

She stifled a laugh and covered her mouth. Must’ve thought I was a total dipshit, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah! Never been better, actually,” I stood up and pulled at my pant leg to inspect the hole. I’d spent 40 caps on the damn things. What a wonderful way to set my mood sour for the rest of the evening. “I’m…gonna go sleep or something.”

My little corner of the Switchboard was nothing special. It was inconspicuous, just how I wanted it. Being as nosy as I was, I couldn’t help but make damn sure no one could get dirt on __me.__ The only personal belongings I kept were a duffle bag stuffed with my wardrobe, and a sizeable handful of pre-war books. Sure, I had some goodies stashed in various nooks and crannies throughout the Commonwealth, but even I never thought to pry the the floorboards out of abandoned houses. If anyone ever found my bounty of caps in Quincy, I’d be a sad, sad man.

The mattresses at HQ did my back no favors. As I laid in the dark, my mind couldn’t help meandering backwards in time.

 

I had this friend, Joaquin Sipe. I met Joaquin and his kid sister, Freya, when I was a pathetic, lonely 19-year-old. Their parents had been shredded to pieces by a deathclaw, leaving them with no caps, no family, and no home.

My folks had been long gone at that point. To this day, I’m still not sure if they made it out of the Commonwealth alive. Last I heard, mom was dragging pops kicking and screaming to the Mojave. Never figured out why, never cared to. Neither of them were worth a shit anyhow.

Joaquin and Freya became my only confidants. As we grew closer, I learned how skeevy they were. I was, however, eager to join their gang: the University Point Deathclaws. It kept my hands and mind busy, I didn’t need much more than that. So long as I stayed in their good graces, I was provided for.

The oldest of the gang was Damien, a rough 28-year-old psycho peddler. You did as he said, always, or faced consequences.

For the most part, our activities consisted of harassing potential synths. We drank sometimes, but that’s a minor detail. My conscience was weighted. I knew it was wrong, but I had nothing else.

Eventually I succumbed to bigotry. Vagabonding was no longer an excuse. I got high on bullying, plain and simple.

I never planned on taking an innocent bystander’s life.

It was Eliza’s idea in the first place. Eliza was a young, antsy little thing from the Capital Wasteland. Born to Pitt raiders. Similar to the majority of us, she was left behind as a kid. I’ve never been able to wrap my head around why Damien allowed it - it put us on the radar and fast. Synths were protected, to an extent. The Railroad saw them as equals. Always has.

Something in me broke when I kicked the box from under his feet. I felt my soul sink within me, stumbling back. The synth’s legs went haywire, kicking about frantically.

And then in one beat the choking subsided and his body went limp. The life vanished from his eyes.

Death is one of those things you get used to. Folks drop left and right out here. You have to learn to stomach it at an early age. At 15, I witnessed my uncle sacrifice himself to a raider gang to buy me time to run. I didn’t run. I watched, I couldn’t look away.

This was…not that.

This was dizzying and soul-shattering at the very least.

The taste of bile lingered in my mouth as I turned a heel and bolted away.

 

I winced at the memory and searched for a distraction. I’d spent my life trying to shed who I used to be. Bits and pieces still hung around, biding with cruel intentions. In a way, I totally deserved to feel ashamed. No amount of repentance could erase my history.

I didn’t sleep well that night, or the next night.

 

She arrived with only a small rucksack, shotgun, and the rags on her back. It almost honked me off that High Rise hadn’t supplied her with more than just a worn black duster, but then again, not my business. For once.

“No minigun?” I cocked my head to the side and twisted my mouth. “Shotgun? Tacky.”

She squinted and jabbed my stomach with the muzzle, “I suggest you back the fuck up and let me find Desdemona.”

Damn, alright. I let her strut past and thanked whatever god still listened that she didn’t blow a hole through me point blank. __I should take this one to Goodneighbor. Fahrenheit could meet her match.__

Glory didn’t look like she belonged to the Railroad. She looked like an old assassin from the movies. Her huntress eyes still made me shake in my shoes, peeking out from behind silver tendrils. An enigmatic piece of post-Armageddon renaissance art. An angel of death. She was the grim fucking reaper, albeit prettier.

Working with this one was gonna be a blast, I could already tell.

Desdemona finally sent her back my way after chit chatting and giving her a place to sleep. Still grumpy as ever.

“I guess I’m your bodyguard,” she huffed, refusing to look me in the face.

“Maybe… You smoke?” Perhaps offering her a cigarette would break the ice.

“Yeah, occasionally.”

“Well, this is an occasion, here. Consider this an apology for being a jackass. Don’t worry, I’ll light it and take the first hit so you know it’s not poisoned.”

I was astounded when she smiled at that. And what a smile, too. Didn’t even know she was even __capable__  of showing any emotion other than anger. She took the cig and puffed on it. Her scrunched eyebrows relaxed and she exhaled in relief. Must’ve been a shitty trip down here.

“Do we need to pack anything?” she passed the smoke back to me and flexed.

“Nah, I’ve got everything we need in a rucksack. Ready if you are.”

“Let’s get gone, then,” she picked her shotgun up and meandered towards the exit.

 

“Ah, Metro. Long time no see.”

“Is this what you people do for fun? Hang out in creepy ass subway stations?” she made a face.

“What do you mean? Did they keep you locked up at Ticon?”

“No, I usually worked out in the open. Ya know, trees, dirt, __air.”__

I faked a cough for her entertainment and shrugged. “Breathing is a privilege. Can you handle a few ferals?”

“Duh.”

“Good. 4 o’clock.”

“Huh?” she blinked.

__“Behind you.”_ _

Thank god she knew how to use that shotgun. I watched the lightbulb go off in her head the moment I said it, Glory whipping around and blasting a ghoul’s head clean off.

“Great! Now let’s clean this dump out and see if there’s anything useful. C’mon.”

 

Glory followed me through the station, startling every time the speaker chimed. She grunted, “It’d be a hell of a lot less spooky in here if those damn things would be quiet. Why are we here, anyways?”

“Desdemona isn’t sure how much longer we can hold up the Switchboard. HQ moves around every other decade, we’re about due up for a change. They send me to do their dirty work most of the time.”

“Sounds like we’re a match made in heaven,” she chuckled. It still didn’t feel like she liked me, but at least she was being nice. I couldn’t blame her for being so short with me. I, too, hated being stuck with me.

Maybe we’d become real friends eventually. I’d like that. I can’t remember when I’ve had a real pal that wasn’t a bigoted shitstain. I hatched a plan - bond with Glory. Go easy on the quippage, gain her trust, and cross my fingers she never asked about my roots.

Not to say I’d be honest about it, but it wouldn’t be the easiest bullshit to conjure.  


End file.
